


All the Courage You Have Left

by heydoeydoey



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 05:50:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heydoeydoey/pseuds/heydoeydoey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows, having lost her once, he will lose her again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Courage You Have Left

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 1x12, "Skin Deep"  
> Cross-posted lots of places.  
> Title borrowed from Mumford and Sons' "Little Lion Man"

He knows, having lost her once, he will lose her again.  It is his curse, after all, and history always does repeat itself.

At first, he tries to stay away, giving the library (and, by default, the pretty young librarian) a wide berth.

It’s impossible to avoid her father, however; French is in debt up to his eyeballs, a string of failed businesses in his wake, and inevitably Belle ( _no_ , Rose, he must remind himself.  Her name is Rose here.) crosses the threshold into his shop one day, intent on settling this month’s payment for her father.

“You really should open your curtains, let some light in.” She tells him, after handing over an envelope. “It’s spring,” she smiles. 

No one ever smiles at him the way she does: genuinely and without fear.  Regina’s smiles are all sharp teeth, his customers’ and his tenants’ smiles are forced, and Henry, who knows far too much for someone so young, never smiles at him.

*       *       *

She makes a habit of coming back (of course she does) and sometimes she pretends she’s shopping for antiques, but most days she doesn’t bother with pretence.  She seems to know she doesn’t need one.

She breezes through the door with a bouquet of flowers for him one day.  Not roses, but goldenrod, “to brighten the place up.”

It’s while she’s searching among his things for a vase that she knocks over the teacup.  He’s been waiting for it to happen, and (foolishly) half-hoping it wouldn’t.  No chipped teacup means nothing for him to cling to when she leaves, which means she might not ever leave at all.

But she knocks the tray with her elbow, and the little china cup all but leaps over the edge, like it was put on this earth specifically to break at this exact moment.  (But of course, it was.  Rumpelstiltskin’s curses are always thorough.  The devil is in the details, after all.)

She gasps, and crouches to pick up the teacup. 

“I’m so sorry,” she apologises in a rush. “It’s chipped.  It’s not so bad, but of course I’ll pay for it.  Although I imagine you want to sell it as a set.  No one wants a tea service missing a cup, do they?  I have been looking for a tea set, but I’ll probably have to set up a payment plan with you to afford this one.” She’s blushing and nervous and he wonders how she can afford to help her father when the idea of paying for a tea set puts her in this state.

“It’s just a cup.” He says, the words familiar on his tongue.  

She slides the chipped cup gently across the counter to him, and he resists the urge to pick it up immediately.  It is both precious and foreboding.  Their story has been set in motion again, and he shudders to think of what might happen this time.

*       *       *

She takes to visiting him on her lunch break, sitting on his counter and eating lunches packed neatly in Tupperware containers.  It is strange, how well she fits into this world, looking as at home in jeans and sweaters as she did in her blue dress.

“People say your memory is excellent,” she tells him after offering him half of her turkey-on-rye, which he accepts because he’s never been very good at saying no to her (minus one devastating exception).

“Do they?”

“Do you remember where all of these things came from?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Helps me forget.”

“Forget what?”

He pauses for just long enough, “I guess it worked.”

Her laugh is exactly how he remembers, high and delighted and just a little bit surprised, like maybe she never considered the idea that he could be funny.

*       *       *

Moe French hates that Belle (no, _Rose_ ) spends time with him.  He doesn’t mean to overhear the argument, but considering they’re shouting in the middle of the street, it’s impossible to avoid it.

“I don’t trust him,” Moe is saying and Rose has her arms crossed tight in front of her, a scowl on her face.

“Which is why you’ve borrowed thousands from him, I suppose.”

He remembers arguing with her all too well – the stubborn set of her mouth and the way she lifts her chin in defiance are immediately familiar.  Her words are thorny and sharp, designed to sting, and even from a distance he can see Moe’s flinch.

“He’s scum,” Moe snaps. “A monster.  I forbid you to see him.”

She snorts, “You _don’t_ get to decide my life for me.”

She turns on her heel and sees him watching and he thinks about retreating back into his shop, but before he can she’s crossing the street towards him, her stride deliberate and determined. 

“You’re not a monster.” She says fiercely, and he wonders if she’s trying to convince him or herself.

*       *       *

 “Have you ever been in love?” She asks, as he follows her around the library while she re-shelves her books, her fingers sliding gently down their spines as if petting a cat.  It’s a terrible idea, to visit her here in the evenings, but he can’t resist.  He thinks that as she’s inevitably going to leave him again, he might as well take advantage of what little time they have left.  He knows that makes him selfish, but he feels much too old to care.

“Twice.” He says honestly. “A long time ago.”

“Oh?  Tell me.”

He hesitates.  This is dangerous. 

“Please,” she says, her eyes wide and so innocent.

“The first…my wife…we were very young.  It wasn’t my wisest choice.”

“Love isn’t a choice,” Rose says, standing on tiptoe to slide a trashy romance novel (likely borrowed by either Ruby or her grandmother) back into its place.

“She was pregnant.” He elaborates and immediately wishes he didn’t.

“You have a child?” She asks, and looks so thrilled at the prospect it _hurts_.

“I _had_ a son.” He corrects and her face falls.

“I’m sorry.”

He waves his hand dismissively and they move from trashy romance around the corner to poetry.  This library operates on her organisational system alone, none of Dewey’s decimals here.

“What about the second?” She prods gently.

“She was far, far too good for me.”

“Oh, really?” Her chin juts up, and he knows she’s ready to fight him on that point.

“Yes.  She was very young, and very pretty, and deserved much better than me.”

Something flickers across Rose’s face and for a split second he thinks she’s going to call him Rum and lean in close and try to kiss away another curse.

Instead, she shakes her head at him. “I don’t think you’re giving either of you very much credit.”

“Perhaps not.  But it doesn’t matter anymore.  It was so very long ago.”

*       *       *

He can’t walk anywhere in town without Moe French glaring daggers at his back, and he knows Moe isn’t the only one who has objections against Mr Gold associating with pretty young things.  He knows with terrible certainty this is the beginning of the end. 

She is trapped here by a curse of his own making, and the one way to set her free is the one thing he can’t risk.  And yet… He can’t push her away; he knows he won’t survive it a second time.

She shows up on his doorstep one night, with an already-purpling mark on her cheek and tearstains on her face.

He wraps her up in his arms and is immediately reminded of the last time, when she’d fallen tearing down his curtains.

“He thinks he can change me.  Change _this_ ,” she says into his chest. “But he can’t, no matter how many times he hits me.”

For a moment, he’s blinded by his rage, but he pushes that back, because time is running out and he’s not going to waste any of it.

She lifts her face off his chest. “I love you and I don’t know your name,” and he can tell it bothers her.

“Rumpelstiltskin.” He says, because there’s no point lying.

She blinks at him. “Like the fairy tale?”

“Exactly like the fairy tale.”

 He expects her to smile but she doesn’t.  She looks at him in that no-nonsense way that tells him that the curse has only wrapped his Belle up in jeans and someone else’s name. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“I love you too.”

She blinks at him, slowly, like she’s trying to remember saying the words first.  He can’t resist smiling at the blush that climbs up her cheeks.

It’s a foolish idea, but it’s the only chance to save her, so he slides his hands up to cradle her face, leaning close to press his lips to hers.

It is not like their first kiss.  That kiss was tentative and over far too soon.  She doesn’t pull away like he did all those years ago.  Instead she pushes closer, her lips hungry on his and her hands gripping the front of his shirt tightly. 

They separate reluctantly, breathless and still clinging to one another.

“ _Rum_.” She breathes, and he knows it’s worked.  He nods and she melts against him, her arms winding tight around his waist.

“I have to leave again, don’t I?” She asks quietly.

“Not like before.  Not because I hurt you.”

“No,” she agrees. “But my father will again.  And the Queen…”

“I don’t know exactly what happened last time—

“I’ll tell you, someday.”

“I need you to stay safe.  And it’s not safe for you here.”

“You’ll have to look after my library for me.  It’s your turn to do the tidying and the dusting.”

He smiles, “Of course.”

“And for the record, Rum, I don’t know how you think I could have found better.  You were always the man for me.  Please don’t forget that or let anyone try to convince you otherwise.”

*       *       *

It hurts to leave him, but it hurts less this time than it did the first.  She avoids the roads and takes a route through the woods, but she knows as soon as she sees Regina waiting at the Storybrooke sign that this was always going to be a shot in the dark.  Rum was just trying to give her the best shot he could.

She squares her shoulders and musters all the courage she has. “Out for a midnight stroll, Madam Mayor?”

“I think you know exactly why I’m here, Princess.” Regina’s eyes narrow.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Belle says, and she means it. “And neither is he.”

“Perhaps not.  But he should know better than to let me exploit his one weakness.”

Belle isn’t entirely sure what happens after that, but she wakes in a dim room on a lumpy mattress with a throbbing head.  She pushes herself up and gets her bearings.  A basement, this time, instead of a tower.  It seems Regina has learned from her first mistake.

Of course, Belle has something the queen will never be able to learn.  Patience.  The two lives she has lived have been spent _waiting_.  She is an expert.  She will wait.  She will plan.  She knows Rum will be doing the same.

*       *       *

Emma Swan arrives in Storybrooke and the clock starts ticking only three weeks after Belle leaves, and Rumpelstiltskin thinks maybe he ought to have waited.


End file.
